Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

Page 28 text:

The Satirist ' s Eye Turned on the Sixth Form Cloak-Room IN THE cloak-room there are three distinct classes of girls — those who crowd about the mirrors, of which last-mentioned objects there are two; those who grovel ignominiously underfoot, search- ing for wandering overshoes or string-bags; and those who, seated upon the shoe-bench buried under the coats, and tripped over by many, wait with a superhuman patience till the hungry hundred has dispersed to its dinner. The first class of girls is the most numerous. In their struggle to maintain a steady position before the mirror, in the milling crowd, with jogged elbows and trampled toes, lipstick wanders from the track on many a fair countenance. The mirror over the wash-basins has a clientele three deep, who, through the common interest of one comb, a drab little brown one that lives behind the mirror, manage to keep on fairly good terms with each other. The first-comers, unless they are exceptionally quick at their art, get jammed so securely between the radiator and the mob in the course of the noon-hour rush, that they emerge with corrugated and too-well-heated spines, while those nearest the mirror, and necessarily the basins, are nearly dislocated in the region of the solar plexus. The mirror by the door has a more exclusive band of adherents, each owning her own comb. Being so near the exit these girls are constantly surged over by the outflow, travelling in sudden starts and stops as the door opens and shuts. They also run the risk of never getting out at all, as they are in a side eddy, as it were, of the main stream. In this corner all the weaker spirits foregather, having been stranded there by the backwash from the stream. Their only hope of ultimate safety is a sudden concerted rush, which may effect a stoppage in the main flow for one golden moment. But the opportunity must be seised immediately, or the waters close over again. What magic lure these mirrors possess I cannot say, being merely mortal. Yet the agony of mind and body which any girl of class A will endure, even for the glimpse of somebody else ' s ear in one of them, surely goes to prove that they change the natural — and therefore ordinary and dull — to something exciting and thrilling. To hear the faery pipes of Pan would not be too great a reward for this effort. But woman has been under the spell of the mirror ever since it was discovered, a precious glittering crystal gem in a green cave under the sea, with its mysterious powers of fas- cination. Perhaps a school-girl cannot be severely blamed for emulating her sisters of time immortal. It is really, after all, the mirror ' s fault for practising the black art. The girls who grovel underfoot have undoubtedly the worst time. For one thing, as nobody but a groveller ever deigns to glance at the floor, these poor unfortunates are completely ignored. They are stamped underfoot as ruthlessly and as unconsciously as by a herd of buffaloes. Then, wandering possessions are so elusive. Even when, after painful excavations in the dark little caves under the shoe-bench and after a search through the swaying forest of black legs, the beloved object is sighted — even then, I say, the poor grovel ler must needs follow up her quarry through thick and thin, which, in steady progress with the outflowing masses, will eventually be evicted forcibly into the hall, if not retrieved in time. In this hectic chase the groveller receives kicks and blows enough to daunt a cur, but she heeds them not ; her excitement deadens all physical feeling. Then at last, dishevelled, smutty and bruised — yet triumphant — she raises high above the heads of the crowd, as the successful huntsman holds up his fox by its brush above the yapping pack, her dear lost overshoe, only to discover it belongs to somebody else! Yes, the groveller ' s condition could not be worse. And all for a paltry combination of cheap velvet, imitation fur, and rubber. What a strong tie are wordly possessions! It is easier for a camel Perhaps the girls who wait, class C, are the wisest of all. They sit like patience on a monument, except that their position is not so exalted. Snugly buried in furs — provided by the multitude — they are well padded against shocks and collisions. No field-mouse in its downy nest could be more comfortable; but ever the hawk hovers overhead, poised watchful, ready at any moment to drop like a thunderbolt upon its prey, ruthlessly to tear it apart. Suddenly into the dark softness of such a retreat plunges the sharp wire-hook of a coat-hanger, and a rending sound ensues, horrible to hear. When peace at last reigns, the lurkers emerge from their holes one by one. The mirrors are there for the looking — but gone is the thrill. Success turns to dust and ashes in their mouths. They have braved the fiercest storms for this! The havoc caused by the departed multitude drearily strews the floor. As a final misfortune a member of the staff enters [26]

Page 27 text:

Ah, no! she whispered. Ah, no! Come not thou near me. Murderer! Old fool! Her voice rose shrilly and hysterically. May the gods damn you! May your ancestors shrivel you and curse you! May you burn a thousand years in purgatory! You — you — father! You have murdered your own son! She laughed horribly and insanely as Wang Lung looked at her fearfully. Look, look! She pointed down at the face of the dead man, while the moon shining clearly sent a pale, sickly glow down into the heavily-scented garden, and over the face of the boy. Wang Lung stood fearing to look, but the accusing finger drew his ga;e down, and the bluish clear light of the moon lit up the features of dead Wang Lo. The old man choked horribly, and stretched out a trembling hand in terror. Then, as one demented, he threw back his head, and screamed to the Heavens: Fate, fate, oh Buddha! Art thou satistied? I am punished. I am punished. Oh, Buddha, I am punished! I have killed my only son! He stopped queerly, choked, and spun around, with his hand clapped to his side, then he fell rigidly over the body of his dead son. His limbs stiffened. Only his eyes lived and suffered — suffered horribly ! He will never move again. His body is paralyzed. But he will live perhaps several years. He will perhaps die soon! It is as Buddha wills! The doctor finished speaking to the attendants, and left. As he went out of the room, the eyes of Wang Lung followed him. Eyes that beseeched and suffered — the eyes of a man who, rightly or wrongly, despaired, as he remembered the sins of his past life, and the ghastly features of a son killed by his own father ! Beverley Hughes, Form Upper VL The Bed of the Sea Somewhere down in the depths ot the sea, I know a lovely country to be; Somewhere under that wide expanse. Lighted by distant sun and moon, Where waves on rocks play a rippling tune. Mermen sing and mermaids dance. The floor is strewn with soft white sand, A memory of the distant land; And waving orchards of blue and red Hide by their beauty the hungry grasp Of furtive months which crush and clasp All unwary prey, alive or dead. A sudden silence comes over the sea. As a huge dark shadow comes sinisterly; All creatures peer up with fearful eyes, Crouch stiffly and silent, not daring to move, Until the great ship has passed up above, And the blue of the sea again matches the skies. G. Archibald, Form IIIa. [25]

Page 29 text:

and says, tirmly and kindly, that Girls must not loiter after i.io p.m. — and, by the way, someone might tidy up that mess. O death, where is thy sting? The loiterers make a solemn pact to be the first to emerge from the dark scene next day. But fate has already got the better of them, if they only knew it. Loitering enters into their blood and contaminates them with its deadly poison. The loiterers are the only class of girls that does not vary. Once a girl enters these dread ranks the world sees her no more. To turn one ' s glance from the cloak-room, out into the great world, we see the three classes uncannily repeated. The mirror worshippers are those who, childishly intrigued by their own brittle sophistry and shallow pseudo-smartness, self-centred and careless, calmly ignore and even trample upon those in a less-e.xalted position in life. Even if they are aware of the misery of existing conditions, they deliberately shut their eyes to them. Appearances are falsified by their own warped minds, as the mirror deceives the eye. delighted with the sight of brilliant red lips. The hum and bustle of their little world lull them into a sense of security, which one day must be broken. The grovellers are those who seek a definite aim, spend a lifetime in striving after it, through every adversity, and yet do not succeed — in the world ' s eyes at least. They are born fighters however, and enjoy the fray. In the end they can rest assured that they have used their gifts, which is the great thing in life. As the poet Browning says: Not failure but low aim is crime. Last come the loiterers who, appalled by the roughness of every day contact, withdraw into themselves, to escape the cruelty of reality. Once in a while the flail lashes through to them. When it does, they awake to a realization that they have missed everything of any value in life. They emerge into a drab and colourless world from which the spice of adventure has departed with the dangers of existence. But perhaps this peaceful monotony is what they like best. Who knows? Suz.ANNE Kohl, Form VL Plurals How stupid the English language is. The funny plurals — oh, gee whiz! F r instance the mouse which changeth to mice; Of course a house never changes to hice. We all know that oxen ' s the plural of ox. But never is boxen the plural of box. And more than one child is always called children, But more than one wild is never called wildren. Though fives sound funny as plural of fife. But lives don ' t sound funny as plural of life. Say deer or sheep, how many d ' you mean? I know not, unless they are to be seen. Nancy Murray, Form IVb. DoREEN Dann, Form IVa. Seagulls Seagulls, flying ever so high Over the dancing foam. Where white-sail ' d ships go swiftly by. On to their distant home. What is it like when thunderclouds crash. When lightning rends the sky, And the churning waves on the great boats lash As Neptune ' s tread comes nigh? On airy days when the world ' s its best And the sky above so blue, Do you go to your nest or ride on the breast Of the sea with its sapphire hue? Frances Brown, Form IVa. [27]